


LOVER'S CHOICE

by thrilljoy



Series: Quote Rhink [2]
Category: Rhett & Link
Genre: Brothels, M/M, Mama Sue - Freeform, North Carolina Mid 1800s but suspend your disbelief a little bit, Old timey American arranged marriage/betrothal, Portait of a Lady on Fire inspired, Smut, Some Shakespeare quotes, and some other quotes -- sprinkled in, laced with Emily Bronte (Wuthering Heights) quotes, painter!rhett, pining!Link, pining!Rhett, smut and bj and hj and full j, smutty smut smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:02:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 17,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25922521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thrilljoy/pseuds/thrilljoy
Summary: AKA Portrait of a Link on Fire ...Inspired by Portrait of a Lady on FireCharles Lincoln Neal the Third is betrothed to Christiana of something or other. The newfangled tradition among new-money Americans is to commission portraits of the betrothed to swap before sealing the deal. Charles manages to thwart the first painter sent to finish his portrait... but can he outsmart the next one?
Relationships: Rhett McLaughlin/Link Neal
Series: Quote Rhink [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1785898
Comments: 4
Kudos: 28





	1. Chapter 1, Charles

**Author's Note:**

> “[M]ay you not rest as long as I am living; you said I killed you - haunt me, then! I know that ghosts have wandered the earth. Be with me always - take any form - drive me mad! Only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you!” Emily Bronte, Wuthering Heights. 
> 
> “Hateful to me as the gates of Hades is that man who hides one thing in his heart and speaks another.” Homer, The Iliad
> 
> “You will always be fond of me. I represent to you all the sins you ever had the courage to commit.” Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part I

Charles Lincoln Neal - the Third, thank you very much - was many things. Why, he was, um… bull-headed, headstrong, stiff-necked, mulish, obstinate, recalcitrant, stubborn, willful... Yes, he was! Those were all the same thing, you say? Fine - but he was also impetuous. Ha! So when the image of Christiana arrived in that silly little box with all that faffery and fuss of tissue paper and gauze and spritzed and perfumed little pieces of paper with icky, sickly sweet little 'love notes' about this and that and he was mandated to sit for a return portrait, he slammed and bolted his door and meant it when he said he wouldn’t come out until Mama Sue put this whole arrangement out of her mind! 

Impetuous! Which meant he hadn’t given any thought to meals, or how he would clean and wash himself! If he left that room he was admitting defeat, and the portrait artist - what’s her face - was collecting her fee whether he set foot outside his door or not. He could wait them out, though - his mother and the 'artist.' He thought it poetic and utterly dreadful stuff to starve to death. Nothing ignited him so like a cause célèbre. And this was the ultimate cause. 

Bless his heart, Chef Joshua would not let him starve. They’d grown up together. Joshua had recently taken over for his father who was relaxing and teaching cooking salons in his older age. Josh had cornbread and fall-off-the-bone meats and fried green tomatoes spirited up Charlie's trellis via a little pulley system they devised. And soon enough, surely enough, the matter was forgotten. What’s- her-face was sent on her poor, merry way and life resumed for Charlie. The half-finished image that was so clearly based off of childhood portraits sat discarded in a corner, shameful. That was last week. Just last week. So why was there now a tall fellow, no, an obscenely tall fellow, traipsing through the brush with a not too well conceived bolt of canvas rolled under his arm and other sundry items spilling out of his bag? Charlie was supposed to be riding his horse thunderously through Lamont Wood, his mother likely believed she could sneak the Adonis in without Charlie being ever the wiser to her plan, but she was mistaken.


	2. Chapter 2, Everett

“Everett McLaughlin, my dear, you come highly recommended. How do you do?”

“Afternoon ma’am,” Everett chirped. Word had travelled fast about this particular situation and Fred McLaughlin - his father and owner of the legendary McLaughlin ArtHaus - was the only fool wise enough to touch this ordeal with a 10-foot pole. But not so foolish as to take on the task himself, no, he made Everett do it. While Cole was traveling these United States painting landscapes and romanesque new money types, he was here, tasked with painting a brat in some arcane North Cack new money tradition borrowed from weird, bored families back in England. But money was money, and if he could prove himself on this, maybe he’d get more responsibility. He was a talented artist, everyone knew it, but he didn’t have a ‘thing.’ Some thing that was just his, that he could stake his reputation on. Something only he could provide that people would telegraph from far and wide requesting that he and only he paint this or do that. Maybe portraiture could be his thing. Repulsed as he was by this whole tradition, he wasn’t called in to judge its moral merits, he was summoned here and being paid handsomely to paint the betrothed and send the portrait off. “Lovely house you have.” He mused. 

“Why thank you sweetheart, I’ll give you the tour.” Everett was relieved of his bags and other items by a footman and given the grand tour. The forekitchen was resplendent, stocked with fruits and candies and innumerable sweets, sweet tea and lemonade were in crystal goblets along with the largest chunk of ice he’d ever seen. The dining table seated 12 or more, there were multiple living rooms and bedrooms and even a wing off-limits to him. He was taken upstairs and downstairs and shown this porch and that lanai, taken down a path to a pond and up a path to the animals and the barn where horses, cows, chickens, pigs and goats were grazing. 

‘Do you ride horses, Mr. McLaughlin?” 

“Oh, call me Everett,” he smiled, “No, I don’t.”

“Perfect - Charlie can teach you! That’ll give you an in with him!” Mrs. Lamont clapped her hands together with glee. 

“An in?” Everett questioned, his eyebrows quirked up in confusion. 

“Why yes, didn’t your father tell you? Charlie is not to know any of this!”

“No, my father did not tell me.” Everett replied through thinned lips. “He told me that Charles had come around and the rumors weren’t true.”

“Oh no, my boy, he’s still as staunchly opposed as ever.” 

“So how has my presence here been explained?”

“You’re a son of one of Mr. Neal’s business associates.”

“Neal?”

“Yes hon, Lamont Manor has been in my family since - well, forever, or as long of forever as we care to admit. Mr. Neal and I were married for business reasons. I got to keep my name and some of the land in my family, while he got - well, everything else. You may think this whole process is backwards, but we’re actually quite progressive. We’re still negotiating with the girl’s family but I think them having a picture of our dear boy will help smooth things over. I know me seeing Charlie's pa sure sweetened me right up!” She whooped, “Everett, I just want him married to a nice young woman so I can have some grand-babies already. Does that make me so evil?”

“Nuh-no, no, not really. Er- not at all.” He choked out. He couldn’t let his feelings about all this cloud his purpose. 

“And I’ve told him time and again that marriage is what he makes it. And just like anyone, your spouse will grow on you. In ten years, he’ll look back on this and laugh at his obstinance. How much time he wasted that he could have had that beautiful girl in his arms. And he’s a man, if he doesn’t click with her, he can take a mistress! I don’t know where you kids got the idea of marrying for love, I mean really! It’s all so trite and unrealistic.” She spat, catching steam now. “Love is something you earn, something you build, and my Lord, it’s so fleeting. If we all based our marriages on love they’d last until the sex got stale and the kids were born and we’d all be on Main Street chasin’ tale! Oop, here he comes - smile Everett.” She slapped on a big toothy grin, circling her mouth with her pointer finger and flexing her eyebrows, silently coaching him to follow her lead.


	3. Chapter 3, Charles

When Link returned from the stables, the tall specimen was on the front porch with Mama Sue sipping lemonade, snacking on petit fours. His long, slender fingers worried a curl on the side of his head as she chatted his ear off about this or that. Charlie thought he heard her saying something about love and tucked that morsel away for later. He’d spring that on her at the dinner table. _What did she know about love anyway?_ He thought to avoid them altogether, to enter the manor through the back or side door but-

“Charles Lincoln Neal don’t you deviate from that path,” Mama Sue’s stern voice bellowed from the porch before turning sickly sweet,” You come up here and meet Mr. McLaughlin, my love! He’s staying with us for a while.” She waved her fan at him. “Honey, be nice, he’s a guest of your father.” When she used his full name, he knew she meant business. 

_Oh, so he comes complete with a cover story, how quaint._ “Hello sir, how are y-” He extended a hand, his mouth agape as his head tilted back as the specimen before him rose to his full height. He gulped and tried to get his mental and facial faculties back under his control, but the man towered over him. The shock of curls even more vibrant and jubilant up close - yes, if hair could be happy and triumphant his mop of strawberry blonde curlicues were the very essence of bouncy, jouncy jubilation, and those mossy forest-green eyes, one could get lost in all that late August swampiness. It was clear the man never spent much time outside but Charlie wouldn’t hold it against him. 

“Everett,” the man said slotting his warm - if not moist - palm into Charlie’s and giving it a shake. 

“Everett?” he said, turning the name over and over in his mouth and inspecting it. “No, I’ll call you Rhett, for short?” He gave Rhett a sly smile.

Rhett chuckled, “Then I’m not calling you Charles Lincoln Nea-”

‘The third,” Charlie narrowed his eyes.

“Yes, all of that, no. I’ll call you…” Rhett considered him for a second, knowing if the man was worth his salt this was as close as he’d ever get to his face. He took in the curve of his jaw, the bounce of his Adam’s apple, the length of his eyelashes dusting over those searing cerulean eyes, he’d have to work some sorcery to conjure a blue that deep, the inky black hair, shorn close to the sides save for a swoop that bounced when he was animated. This fellow was a creature, personality and character seeped out of his very being. Rhett wondered how he would capture it, wondered if the man lived every part of his life so intensely and fully present. That level of self-awareness usually paralyzed people, but this fellow had gone through and come out the other side fully embodied. It scared him a little - like how owls could turn their heads completely around, or how on even the clearest, stillest of nights the hoot of an owl could rattle your bones and haunt you in your bed. 

Charlie cocked his head, a smile playing out on his lips now. Those lips, full and pink, the curve of his nose, his long neck, strong shoulders. “You’ll call me what - not Charles Linc-”

“Link,” Rhett said, knocked out of his reverie, seizing on the first shortened sound that made sense. “Link. You can call me Rhett, I’ll call you Link.” He needed to sketch, he needed to transfer all his thoughts and reference lines, the skeleton, before he lost it, before the images faded, before the mood and character lost him. He had a job to do and every second in Link’s presence weakened his resolve, but he would do it. He would complete his task, and move on with his life. 

“If I may be excused?” He turned to Mama Sue. 

“”Yes, darling.’ She winked at him. “Supper’s at 6, hon.”


	4. Chapter 4, Rhett

Rhett raced to his room, fished a pencil and his little notebook from his satchel and began sketching. He cursed himself for the limited array of colors he’d packed. Needing to keep his luggage light, and not having much time to pack, and being warned to keep his tools and materials inconspicuous he’d only packed the most necessary of colors. What were the odds his subject’s eyes would be so vibrant and deeply blue? He knew he could make blue paint with casein and was in luck that the Lamonts or the Neals, whatever their names were, had cows on their property. He could get a sample of milk and could charm his way into the nearby university for some kind of acid. Adding acid or bacteria to the milk would cause the milk to ferment, curdling the milk and from the curds he could obtain the casein. He would add water and let the mixture sit overnight, then add pigment from berries for his blue. He could find flowers for the pink of Link's lips - if he was already making one paint from scratch, why settle for the boring red and white he'd brought along with him? Why not paint the entire portrait with pigments derived from items on the Lamont property and throughout the Lamont Woods? Could this be his thing: Found items turned into one-of-a-kind paints for portraits that told the story of the land and the people on it?

It would make his cover believable if he accompanied Mr. Lamont to the University a few days of the week - there he could access their lab for the chemicals he needed for his paints, and store them while they set. 

Now that his plan was solidifying, he could relax a little. He settled in to read his book of Mythology for an hour or two then luxuriated in a warm bath, the heat and steam relaxing his travel-weary muscles. 

Rhett dressed silently for dinner, musing on the composition of the portrait. The recipient family really just wanted to see the face and some glimpse of personality, but Link had beautiful fingers, that played absentmindedly with his fork when he thought or was in the heat of debate, that made magic on the piano - his musical ability rivalling Rhett’s (and he never backed down from a battle for supremacy on the piano), and that pointer finger nudging his reading glasses up when he was lost in his book. The party - Mama Sue, Mr. Neal, Link and Rhett - decamped from the dining room to a sitting room to enjoy piano, hot chocolate and reading. Rhett hadn’t brought his book down and didn’t see any books of fables or myths - his pet project was illustrations of fables and myths that resonated with him - so he pulled a book of aphorisms and flipped to a random page: _“My brother Francis and I are in perfect accord - he wants Milan, and so do I.”_ Charles IV.

Rhett chuckled. 

He flipped to another page: _“If my soldiers were to begin to think, not one of them would remain in the army.”_ Frederick the Great. He thought of himself, his present situation, his mandate. How he was facilitating a process that was leading a man into a loveless marriage he so clearly did not want. How he was stifling that man’s options. How he was trading on his morals for money and some kind of freedom. How he had inserted himself into this fight, staking his own career on a task he was losing steam on with the passing of each minute, every second. He glanced at Link under the guise of studying his features and noticed some new quirk, some new beautifully magnificent feature. The man was art. He wanted to loosen each button, untie each string, peel each piece of clothing slowly away from his body and study his curves, his edges, follow each sinew, with his hands, his fingers pressing and prodding, his tongue. He could sculpt him out of clay and still not quite capture his essence. This man deserved to be adored, worshipped, a love deep and exultant would surely tame him and channel his fire and passion into more worthy causes, sublimating it into something surreal and otherworldly. 

Some people - Rhett had discovered in his travels with his father, and through shadowing his paintings and portraits, hearing stories and spying - _not spying_ \- watching people, listening to them - hadn’t been loved right, or fully. Either they held themselves back from their spouses or there was too much to do in a day to save any energy or attention for tender delights. He figured himself lucky that his family was all about art and passion, he’d been given free rein over his life and over the world, his only limitations were those imposed on him by his own imagination and talent. His father wasn’t born rich but had made a name for himself and some money. He would support Rhett but not pamper him, and that support had an expiration date. The world - and life - were Rhett’s for the taking. 

Link, however, had a family with innumerable resources and great power, yet they were closing the world off to him. Rhett supposed the pressure was even more since Link was an only child. Maybe if he had brothers and sisters, other opportunities for his parents to make matches, his impetuousness would succeed in thwarting his parent’s efforts and he could wrest control of his fate from their hands. But he had nowhere to hide, and his mother had dug in her heels. So sad, really.


	5. Chapter 5, Link

Link - the nickname so new it still smelled like the box it came in - felt the distinct sensation of being watched. He knew his theory was correct that this Rhett fellow was the replacement artist sent to paint that dastardly portrait of him - for which he had no intention of sitting. He settled in his seat and glared at Rhett from under his lashes but he appeared engrossed in his silly little book. The curious man had pulled one from his father’s shelf. A little brown leather number with gold lettering. The book was positively engulfed in the man’s moist palm, and with his other hand he caressed the pages. Link knew they must be soft. Some of his father’s books were specially commissioned, stone pages, soft beyond soft, so soft he could weep. Rhett trailed the pads of his fingers all along the soft pages each time he turned one. Link let out a tiny gasp. He was flipping to random pages. Link looked sadly at the man. _Could he read?_ Surely he could because they’d played the piano, but what if he was just one of those gifted fellows who excelled in the Fine Arts but couldn’t read or write? How sad! And he hadn’t sang the words to any of the songs. Poor, poor fellow. He must really need this then, Link resolved to teach him, then. It would be his one good deed for the year and if this Rhett was so busy being educated, he would have no time to paint. Was there a Saint Charles already? Because if not, if he taught a wayward artist how to read surely he was a shoe-in. 

He returned to his own book, an interminable recounting of some war or other. He’d been too busy ogling the tall fellow roving his hands over the spines of the books to choose a good one. Rhett's movements were graceful and contained, and again that shock of hair that had been slightly damp when he’d sat at the table, the ringlets more defined. He was beautiful. His hands always pushing his curls this way or that or worrying that same little circle of curls when he was deep in thought. He was also quite put-together for an artist. A collared shirt, vest and trousers - all neat and clean - his only tell was the dark splotches on his hands and a little shock of color under the nail of his pinky. Link noticed it when he’d passed the potatoes. He’d smirked then - his eyes on the offending finger to let Rhett know he knew, but Rhett’s face remained stolid, his other hand waiting to receive the bowl of biscuits. Well played. 

He found his eyes drawn to Rhett again, and this time he caught the man staring - the look on his face so sad and forlorn. Link quirked his eyebrows and scoffed. Was that pity he saw? No, no no no no, that would not do. “Rhett.” He called, soft and sweet. “What are you reading?” The artist turned the book upside down and scrambled to see the title. All for show, apparently - could he read his mind? 

“Dunno, a book of sayings - aphorisms, by kings, queens and consorts and military fellows. The paper is magnificent!”

“Ah yes? Read us one.” Link smiled, resting his book on his knee.

“ _‘It seems to me that man is made to act rather than to know: the principles of things escape our most persevering researches.’_ Frederick the Great.”

“Hmm, yes. Right.” Grunted Mr. Neal.  
Mama Sue clapped, “Read us another!” She chirped.

Rhett saw this as his chance. 

“ _‘I would rather go to any extreme than suffer anything that is unworthy of my reputation, or of that of my crown.’_ Elizabeth I.” He leveled it like a charge, vollied it like a cannonball, right at Link.

Mama Sue cleared her throat. “Yes, we women needs must do when the devil drives.” She smiled and closed her book. “Some things are out of our control, we either hop on the wagon and try to steer the horses, or get caught in the wheels and trampled by them. Reputation is of the utmost.”

“But does it have to be, mama?”

“Dear, Charlie, I will not hear it. Everything leads back to this marriage. It’s not so bad, look at your father and I.” She reached for Mr. Neal’s hand and gave it a squeeze. 

“But mama, isn’t it time to change all that? Didn’t either of you have someone else you had your heart set on?”

“Save it! Spare me the drudgery of Shakespeare, all the thisses and thines, _‘I will live in thy heart, die in thy lap, and be buried in thy eyes.’_ Do you know how that sentence truly ends, Charlie? With an agreement to carry out a DUTY. Love is never the forefront, it is always an accessory to duty. We all have our duties. That’s what keeps the horses fed, and the sheets folded, and the food in your belly and wine in your glass. Duty!”

Mr. Neal patted her hand, drained his mug and stood, extending his hand which she took, and they exited the room. Link slumped back in his seat and Rhett returned to his book. The pair sat in silence, Rhett continuing to flip through the soft pages; Link fuming.

“You did that, you know. That is your fault! You and your stupid quotes.” He gestured at the little book.

“Oh look,” Rhett pointed to the page exaggeratedly, _“I have always observed that to succeed in the world one should appear like a fool but be wise.”_

Link rolled his eyes, “That’s not in there. Montesquieu is not in there. Kings, Queens, Generals.” I’ve read that thing cover to cover. 

Rhett smiled, “So then you know all the teachings in here. You’ve absorbed all this great wisdom and yet-”

“Stop right there,” Link leaned forward, elbows perched on his thighs. “You do not know me! You may know of my situation but you do NOT know me. You can’t begin to judge or offer counsel. Don’t pretend you’re on my side in all of this - spare me your wise insights. You’re on your side, though I can’t imagine what you get out of all of this. Tsk, tsk… _‘You have to study a great deal to know a little,’”_ He returned the volley. “Good night.” He said with a wave of his hand.


	6. Chapter 6, Rhett

Rhett blinked. He was being dismissed? From the room. Link - with a wave of his hand - was … dismissing him? Fine. He returned the book to the shelf and returned to his room. He now had his composition: Link at a table, hand resting on a stack of books. He would choose the titles carefully. If he could recruit Link, they could use the composition to send a message to Christiana about marriage and love, manage her expectations. Maybe in marriage Link could offer her freedom to explore her pursuits, offer her empowerment, she wouldn’t be caged by any stiflingly outmoded expectations of wifehood and womanhood. Maybe their love would grow out of mutual respect. Mr. Neal had been with his mistress much of the day, only returning to sup and read with his family, and listen to music. This was not a man denying the nature of marriage, maybe Link was appealing to the wrong person’s sensibilities. He would get nowhere with his mother, but his father could be a useful resource. 

The next few weeks Rhett worked, breaking for walks along the property gathering leaves, herbs and flora, and a swim in the lake. He stretched his canvas and primed it. A footman helped him carry the biggest mirror in the house into his studio room and he used himself as his own model to lay down the draft composition. Each supper, he studied Link’s movements when he could, trying to get the proportions right. At meals, on show for Mama Sue and Mr. Neal they played nice, conversation flowing easily between them. They were learning a lot about each other, exchanging books and accompanying each other on piano. More instruments were pulled out from dusty cupboards, more elaborate sheet music was played, neighbors were invited. But beyond the dinner tables and drawing rooms Link avoided Rhett, kept to himself and his horses and whatever else he filled his days with. 

Many nights Rhett touched himself languidly in the bath, edging himself over and over again until a forceful crescendo, a magnificent release after staving off his orgasm, chasing it hungrily. Visions of Link’s body, his hands in his hair, on his chest, bruising his hips, hands all over his magnificent rump, riding Rhett like he rode those lucky stallions day in and day out, those muscles primed and strong, leaving Rhett sweaty and spent. He wanted more than just Link’s bruising, eviscerating wit and withering gaze, he wanted the softness, the heat, the passion that exuded from him, oozed from his every pore, laced his every movement and action. The man was pure sex and passion. He swore spending more time around Rhett had channelled all Link’s agita into something raw and primal and manly. That would be Rhett’s true gift to Christiana, then, or whoever Link found release with. Rhett got the chill and the bite - rightfully so, he was complicit in an unfortunate situation, his freedom inextricably linked to Link’s capture. This was poetic and utterly dreadful stuff. He was resigned to it, but he envied whomever received the reverse. _“If you ever looked at me once with what I know is in you, I would be your slave.”_ Bronte’s words in his ear as he found release again, Link’s name on his lips, and in his fantasy, Link’s lips on his… anything. Everything. 

He found a few books about local foliage and an atlas and studied the area. He charted a path and found a cutlass and roved through the forest for berries and leaves and flowers that would stain the colors he wanted. He found a soil and silt he liked for his browns and beiges. Wood ash he would use for the pages, some books would be turned to Link, only showing their pages, the setting had to look natural after all. He had Chef Joshua save him onion skins, some turmeric and bay leaves for his yellow, he found dandelions on his walk and marigolds at the florist. All the egg shells from breakfast and all meals were dried and crushed for Rhett. They would be mixed with egg yolks, water and vinegar and then into each pigment to help the resultant paint stick to the canvas. He also obtained a jar of honey. Once the painting was done he would place egg whites in a large container and let it sit, any liquid that accumulated would be spread over the canvas, sealing it like varnish. But that was for when all this was done. 

On one of his walks he saw Link walking alongside his horse in the clearing ahead. He’d taken a new route today, his first time on an actual hoof-beaten path. The horses hooves would have trampled all the leaves and plants and the best and freshest flora would be in areas where they were least likely to be disturbed. But Rhett’s mind had been wandering and so too had his legs because here they were, having carried him to Link. 

Link was in riding gear, a crop on his side and a little hat on the ground beside him. He was petting the horse and feeding him an apple.

“What do you want?” Link asked as Rhett approached.

“No- nothing. I can- I can leave.”

“Who are all the flowers for?”

“What?” Rhett asked, a bit stunned by the question.

Link turned, nearly levelling Rhett with his gaze. Again he was stunned by all that blue. Truly, his paltry casein blue paint did not compare. He had to find another way. Maybe he could split the stem of a rose and stick it in water with the casein blue pigment, the stem leaching the pigment up into the petals. He could crush the blue-dyed petals, the natural oils making the hue more vibrant? He would have to try. Those eyes deserved to be rendered as close to reality as humanly possible, Christiana had to know. 

“I said, who are the flowers for. They’re not for one of the girls in the house, mother likely would have forbidden you from taking one of them, and they’re not for me-”

“Would you like flowers?” Rhett smirked, hoping it did well enough to cover just how sincere his question was.

“Don’t change the subject… and you don’t visit Little Brick in Brunswick* because Grace** is sweet on Joshua, I play cards with them once a week and one of them would have told me, also you’d be a hit-”

*NC brothel remains (https://www.google.com/amp/s/www.livescience.com/amp/65734-brunswick-town-colonial-tavern-maybe-brothel.html)  
**Grace Peixotto, Madam of Big Brick in South Carolina (not North Carolina, but interesting story) (https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Grace_Peixotto)

“I’d be a hit?”

“Yeah, tall fellow like you - big hands, big feet, you’d be swimming in tail.”

“Ha! What time do they open?”

Link sneered, “You wouldn’t.” He put his hands on his hips. 

Rhett crossed his arms but kept his mouth shut. _Was Link jealous at the thought of him at his precious brothel? Jealous of whom - Rhett, or his would-be companion?_

“Besides, don’t change the subject. Who are the flowers for?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“I don’t want to know… or you don’t want to admit.”

“Both, either? Take your pick.”

Link scoffed, “Alright then, keep your secrets.”

Rhett huffed and threw his hands up in exasperation, “This would be a lot easier if-”

“If I what, Rhett! If I just posed for you? If I let you just paint the best portrait you could and kiss it and seal it with a bow and let you send it off and sign my death note? NO!” He sneered, picking up his cap and mounting his horse. “No, I’m not going to make this easy for you. Pick your flowers and your berries, do your crafts, I will NOT make this easy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright then, keep your secrets (https://giphy.com/gifs/hero0fwar-kys-keep-your-secrets-alright-then-S5n7Wkhhw5A2IrfKER)


	7. Chapter 7, Link

Something was off in the dining room as Link entered. He filled his wine glass from the decanter and pulled out his seat. His mother and father smiled at him then rang the bell for service. 

“Wh- where’s Rhett?” Link asked, pointing to the seat he usually occupied at meals. The place completely empty. 

“Mr. McLaughlin,” his mother enunciated, “of whom I know you’ve grown quite fond, has sought entertainment elsewhere tonight.” Mama Sue said, dabbing her napkin at the corners of her mouth.

“And if it agrees with him, I think he might spend some nights there as well. Good for a handsome, tall, young man like himself to have other pursuits, wouldn’t you say.” His father piped up. 

“I would, dear.” Mama Sue’s voice saccharine and mocking. “I’m surprised he’s got his appetites so well-controlled, artists are usually looser, wouldn’t you say?”

Link could spit vile. He’d done this. He’d planted the idea of the Little Brick in Rhett’s head and there he was. Getting his jollies off. The biggest, tallest thing any of the Brickettes had ever seen. Link had been loathe to admit just how much he looked forward to these meals and their nights together. Rhett intrigued him, fascinated him. He liked to be appraised and considered under Rhett’s withering gaze. The looks lingered longer these days, Rhett was always looking at his lips, his neck, his hands, he wondered where else his gaze travelled when he knew he wouldn’t be caught, where did his mind go. What did he have Link doing with his lips, his hands, his neck? What compromising positions, what filthy, depraved things? Rhett had only to breathe his name to compel him to submit and Link would give himself over blindly. 

“Charlie, are you okay?” Mama Sue asked, reaching across the table for his hand. “You look afflicted.” There was a hint of concern in her voice. Link did not let that stir him, and he recoiled from her. 

_‘I have to remind myself to breathe - almost to remind my heart to beat!’***_ “I’m fine,” he spat, draining his glass. Ellena was upon him at once, refilling it with more wine.  
***Emily Bronte, Wuthering Heights.

He allowed his parents to carry the conversation though his mood remained sour. He succumbed slowly to the sweet succor of inebriation, let it pull him in like the moon and the tide. Later on the piano, he played pleasantly and sweetly, lulling his parents to sleep with their favorite tunes. And when they retired for the evening he crashed through the house, scooping his jacket and boots into his hand and tumbled into the carriage. “Lil Brick,” he slurred at the footman, the hitch and giddyap throwing him backward in the seat. 

He was down the steps and skittering off toward the door before the carriage rolled to a complete stop. “Thank you,” he called over his shoulder, righting himself, dusting his boots and straightening his clothes before grabbing the snake and rose**** knocker and banging … hard. 

**** _"Look like the innocent flower but be the serpent under’t.”_ Shakespeare, Lady MacBeth

The first paved street on the block, it had inspired a renaissance in the area though many chose to turn their nose up at it. 

“Who’s that banging on my door all loud like?” Grace bellowed from her foyer, snatching the door open, her features softening when she saw Charlie. “Charlie boy I thought you was the coppers come callin. Get in here!” She pulled him inside and into a warm hug. 

“Where is he?”

“Who baby?” She steered him toward a plush couch in one of her sitting rooms, away from the prying eyes of patrons and her girls. She shoved a glass of water into his hands and watched him drain it, filling another and repeating. When he set it down she filled his hands with little pastries.

“You know who.” Link glared at her.

“Oh, your boy.” Her smile rueful, she motioned for him to eat. “Except he’s not, right. Remember the other day? What we agreed? And I said if he comes in here and goes off with one of my gals, he likely doesn’t feel that way about you - it's just business. Now we don’t know anything yet, Charlie. Not until my girl gives report. He could be a stingy lover. He could be mean drunk, a mean lover. He could be sloppy, uncoordinated - sitting there promising her the stars then reneging on the deal. He’s an artist, Charlie, he’s doing his job best he can since you’ve made it nigh impossible. You don’t like him, you don't love him! You like the attention. You didn’t think he would do it and now here he is and you’re getting cold feet. Tough luck! Now you can focus on the task at hand. Use him to get what you need, or if you're resigned to fulfilling your duty, negotiate with your mother and father!”

“I want to see him!”

“He’s otherwise occupied baby, just went up with Jess not two minutes before you got here. And she wasn’t even in on it, so she’s in for a mighty good time. And she worked for it, she earned it. She wasn’t even taking anyone tonight, she was passing through and he caught her eye.”

“I want to see him.”

“No. Not unless you make it worth my while. You want him, you pay Jess’s tab. You owe her that much. And what are you gonna do when you get up there? You gonna leave him blue? You prepared to finish what she started?”

“How much.” He repeated, more bass in his voice, a gruffness he didn't know he had.

“Charlie, don’t do it. You’re not ready to see this all the way through. You gonna march up to Mama Sue and tell her what’s what? What are you gonna do for money? Where you gonna live? You gonna travel with your artist? You thinking with the wrong head, Charlie.” Stay here, eat, sober up-“

“How. Much.”

“Okay, okay.” She held her hands up in defeat. She had no cock in this fight, and had money coming to her either way. “$200.” Charlie balked. Jess was expensive and rightfully so, Rhett had expensive tastes through and through. He handed over the cash.

“Upstairs, last door on the right.” 

Charlie tore up the stairs and clattered into the room - door, hinges, decency be damned. Rhett’s shirt was off, his pants undone, Jess was stripped down to lacy lingerie, gyrating in his lap as they moaned and kissed deeply, his hands on her ass and running up her skin. Rhett tore away from her, startled by the commotion. 

“Link!?” He moved to cover Jess. 

“Jess, you can go.” Link barked as he threw her clothes at her. She started to object but thought better and skittered out of the room, closing the door behind herself.


	8. Chapter 8, Rhett

“Link, what are you doing?” Rhett covered himself, adjusting himself and redoing buttons, his face flushed. 

“What are _you_ doing?” Link said, stumbling onto a plush sofa. “Why are you here?” He hiccuped. 

Rhett let his head fall into his hand. “Are you drunk?”

“So?” He sassed. Honestly the ride over, and choking down water and sweetcakes while arguing with Grace had sobered him up a bit. 

“You shouldn’t be here.” Rhett’s voice little more than a whine, tweaking the jealous, aching place in Link’s belly. 

“And yet here I am.”

“What do you want from me?”

“I don’t know.”

“That’s not good enough.” Rhett was on his feet in an instant, searching for his collared shirt, jacket and boots. 

Halfway to the door Link intercepted him, still unsteady on his feet. "Wait! Let me think!”

“Save it. We’re not friends. I am here to do a job, you are making it impossible. When I am done, I will leave, you will marry. Whatever this is, you’ll think better of it when the wine leaves you. This is not real to you. Just as you are something for me to conquer, I am something for you to conquer. But our aims are diametrically opposed.”

“Uurgh, shut up and let me think!” Link shouted, pushing Rhett backward onto the sofa he’d vacated. “Give me a minute.”

Rhett huffed.

“Why haven’t you finished yet? Why aren’t you done.”

“I’m trying to find the right blue.”

Link frowned, “Blue?”

“Your eyes. I don’t have the right blue. I try to make the right blue and nothing compares. And your lips,” he reached out and settled his fingers on them, “The proper curve eludes me. Whenever I think I’ve got them committed to memory, you worry them between your teeth.” Link sucked his lower lip in between his teeth. Rhett stirred in his seat, “Yes, like that." He gawked, "And I wonder if that’s what you should be doing instead, if I can capture that. If it wouldn’t look like some deformity on the canvas. But how can I do them justice?” Link released his lip, placing a soft kiss on Rhett’s fingers, which he trailed across his cheek and down into the hollow of his jaw, his other hand coming to meet it, pulling Link in, down onto his knees. Two thumbs traced his Adam’s apple. “And this. Splendid, how do I capture this? So much light and shadow. I have to decide where the light is coming from. In the painting, you’re reading, or just finished reading. Your eyes are looking out, right back at the viewer. They are affronted with all that blue.” His hands were back up now, tracing Link's brows, the back of a finger gently curving up against his lashes, then thumbs back on his eyes tracing the hollows under each one. “Your hand is on them, the books - just resting.” Their hands found each other’s and Rhett inspected Link's fingers and knuckles, compared the size difference. “Beautiful,” he breathed. “Touch me,” he begged.

And Link complied. His hands flew instantly to Rhett’s hair. He wrapped his fingers in those pillowy curls and tugged, a low moan escaped from Rhett’s lips and his eyes fluttered closed, his lips parted, his tongue flitting across to quench them, and Link closed his lips over Rhett’s, kissing deeply. He kissed away any memory of Jess and replaced them with him. Rhett shifted down off the couch and crashed their bodies together on the floor. Link removed Rhett's shirt completely, undid his pants and did away with them - throwing them across the room. Rhett pushed him down and straddled him, undoing the buttons of Link's shirt. Tracing his muscles, tweaking his nipples, learning his topography with the pads of his fingers, tracing and charting a course down, down, popping the buttons off and shimmying Link out of his pants. Rhett took Link's cock into his hands and began tortuously slow motions up and down, skimming a pearl from his slit, using that to lubricate Link’s shaft as he picked up the pace. Link squirming and moaning beneath him. Rhett committed to memory every breath and sigh, each look of anguish and pleasure. He took Link down his throat, enveloped his long cock in the heat and warmth of his mouth and expertly - so expertly - brought him to orgasm. Toe-curling, moaning, bellowingly loud orgasm once ... then twice so quickly Link pushed him off. 

“Oh God, wait, stop, let me catch my breath.” He wheezed, his chest heaving. 

Rhett pulled Link to him, had him straddle his lap and sucked and nibbled at his neck, careful to only bite and suck hard where his collar would cover. He chased Link's lips, holding firm to his promise to let Link catch his breath but when he started rutting against Rhett again, Rhett gathered their cocks together and squeezed more delicious moans and pleas from Link, this time languid and slow, teasing and kissing and sucking at his skin, whispering filthy things in his hear. Link threw his head back as Rhett eased his orgasm out of him, nearly choking when Rhett squeezed and tugged at his balls, his thighs tightening around Rhett, his nails burying into the skin on his arm and shoulder. His name - all of them: Rhett, Everett - repeated like incantations as a wave of pleasure hit him. Rhett milked his orgasm out as well, having held it in for so long this evening, he painted Link’s stomach with his release. 

They cleaned up and Link slumped against Rhett back on the couch. “Why a stack of books?” Link asked, curling deeper into Rhett’s arms. 

“You use them to send a message to her. A message about the nature of the marriage. How she can be free in it, take a lover, do whatever she likes, and that you will do the same - but the sanctity of your marriage will be preserved, and through it you two can be lifelong friends and partners.”

“That’s too risky. Any books or codes we know, our parents know. Maybe you can pass along the message, when you deliver the painting?”

“I’m only the artist, someone else is delivering it. Is there someone you trust in the house, someone she trusts in hers?”

“Maybe, I’ll ask Chef Joshua. We’re friends.”

“Okay. We should be getting back.”

In the carriage on the way back, snuggled under a blanket, Link kissed Rhett’s neck. His hand creeping down Rhett’s chest and torso, unbuttoning his pants and taking his cock into his hand. “You were amazing. But you’re not the only skilled hand here.” Link whispered.

“We don’t have much time,” Rhett cautioned, amid breathy moans, squirming in his seat. 

Link stomped twice on the carriage floor and Rhett heard the footman’s hyaah! Then the crack of the whip, and they were speeding up, the clatter of hooves drowning out all noise from Rhett’s ear, even the sounds of his own moans as Link finished him off at bruising pace, his orgasm building from deep inside of him - the cacophony, the thrill, the loss of all sense of time, their impending arrival, the chance of getting caught, and he was roaring, spurting into his own pants and into Link’s deft hands, Link’s lips closing over his to absorb some sound as they clattered to a halt and Rhett’s body was wracked with his orgasm, his heart beat thrumming in his ears the first sound to come back to him, Link still gripping and milking him, resolved to whimpers, his toes curled in his boots, the blankets clumped in his grip, Link all around him, his lips on his neck, mischief a glint in his eye. Another impossibly pitiful orgasm eked out of him softly and slowly as the footman led the horses away, the crunch of gravel closer and closer as he returned, yet Link refused to quit much as Rhett squirmed and dribbled a meager load between his fingers. He was a husk, spent and dry, but so willing for the sweet torture, the muscles in his abdomen contracting painfully, he croaked out another orgasm and kissed Link weakly. 

Link chuckled into Rhett’s ear, “You’re almost as much of a glutton for punishment as I am. You would let me wreck you, wouldn’t you?” He husked, “You would let me ruin you. You would turn over all your faculties to me and be my puppet? Allowing me to push you beyond yourself, past the brink. How far astray would you let me lead you, Everett? You would forget yourself for me wouldn’t you?”

“Yesssssss,” Rhett croaked. Hearing his real name after so long was jarring. Like a spell broken, or cast - he was unsure. Only peripherally aware his spent cock was being shoved back down into his pants - it could be bent in half for all he knew, his senses were so amped the synapses were fried and it was just a dull, numbed mass of flesh to him now. Gratefully, Link was also tucking his shirt back into his pants and righting the blankets around them. He was still woozy from the thrill of it all. He imagined he wouldn’t be able to touch himself for a week after tonight. 

“You’d let me leave you spitting and dribbling and begging for water, air, mercy… I think … I think I’m your muse, Everett. I could lead you anywhere. You would sacrifice anything to capture me just right. You'd create new colors for me; you search those woods high and low for anything to capture my visage. You’re mad with it. Phaedo called the muse a possession, Everett, an affliction. I think I own you. I can do evil things to you - leave you splayed open naked on a rock and peck out your liver every day; melt wax, stick feathers to your back and kick you off a click just for the dizzying fall, the beautiful sound and whoosh of wind in your hair and if I told you you could fly you’d flap your makeshift wings for me to prove me right; Stealing a glance at me could turn you into stone and you’d still risk it; _You’d dig a cavern in your own belly just to echo my name._ Better still, I could ask you to do diabolical things. I can lead you away from your path Rhett - I could ask you to choose between _“the glow of heaven and the 'glare' of hell and [you’d forge your] own path between 'scraph's song and demon's groan.”_ ***** I don’t think you want to be done with me. I think after you paint me you’ll be broken. You’ll need 40 days of rain and 40 nights of darkness. You’ll need to be exorcised of all memory of me lest I haunt you, Rhett.”

*****http://www.victorianweb.org/authors/bronte/ebronte/wiseman1.html

The week without release after knowing how his and Link's body sang together was torture. His rose idea worked and the test patches were a vibrant blue. On the sixth day Mama Sue caught Rhett just as he was returning with his makeshift wooden paint box, carrying in all the paints he’d cultured and mixed at the University. He was ready. 

“Oh Mr. McLaughlin, dear, come sit with me a spell.” She smiled and waved him into her sitting room. “I may have some other clients lined up for you and wanted to know your progress. Oooh, what’s that?” She asked, her eyes delighting over all the little paint pots in his trough.

“All the colors I've mixed. I’m using all natural colors I made from leaves, berries, fruits and vegetables found in and around your house, in the woods and grown locally.”

“Wow, that’s talent, my dear. And we’re giving her a little piece of our story as well.”

“Yes,” He smiled, “I have a canvas with a swatch of all the colors and a little note about what each of them are!”

“Oh how splendid, could you make one for me too? I’d love for us to have some token or memento. I realize when you leave we’ll have nothing to remember you by.” She smiled sweetly, cloying. She never was good at masking her fangs with the cover of Southern gentility, she couldn’t cover her bite. _Predators never really can, huh. ___

__“You’re correct. I can certainly do that!”_ _

__“And here I thought you were stalling, or stuck - but you’ve gone full steam ahead. You'll make your father so proud.” She paused, waiting for his obligatory smile and nod, he made sure the smile made it all the way up to his eyes. “Splendid! Well I’m off to visit with friends.”_ _

__Rhett bade her a good day and returned to his studio room. He was surprised to find Link waiting for him, perched on his stool amid his mise en scène, slowly leafing through his sketchbook._ _

__“I’d hoped you were as good as I thought you were. I thought the color business was a ploy. I’d hoped you were a lovesick fraud, biding your days pining after me until my parents called your father and he came to collect you in disgrace, strapping me down and painting me against my will. But you are all that you say and more Eh-vah-rett,” he enunciated, a violent lilt to his words. “And I do not know if that is my loss... or yours.” He smiled weakly, and gulped._ _

__Rhett’s breath quavered in his throat, the only sound between them._ _

__Link lunged for a candle and lit it in the hearth, “I could take this candle and burn this whole place down,” he said, spilling wax all over Rhett’s loose sketches strewn along the windowsill and between the pages of his sketchbook on the table. “But you’d salvage the canvas, paint me with the ashes and use this very wax to seal it, wouldn’t you?” Link cocked his head, shaking the candle at him._ _

__Rhett set his paints down, removed his overcoat, and suit jacket._ _

__“Wouldn’t you!?” Link screamed._ _

__“Yes.” Rhett conceded. “I’d nick my finger and paint you with my very blood if it meant I could be done with this, if it meant in any way I could have you. If I could convince you you were worth more than a loveless marriage, if I could promise you passion and riches beyond measure. You see my talent, you know my father. You know what I am risking as well, but you don’t consider it even trade. I’ve made my peace with that. But what else do you expect of me? What more could you possibly want!?”_ _

__Link blew out the candle and sent it flying against the wall. Molten wax, ash and glass slipped down the wall, cooling and hardening. “PAINT ME!” He sobbed. “Be done with it!”_ _

__“Take off your clothes.”_ _

__“What?”_ _

__“Take off your clothes.”_ _

__“Why.”_ _

__“Your mother alleges that when I leave there will be nothing for you to remember me by. The very portrait I am here commissioned to paint will not remain here, it is not for you, it is not for this house. You think you know my talent? I want you to be sick with it. I want you to be swimming in it. Take off your clothes. This first one is for me, the next one is for you. Then I want you to find every good gown, hat and suit and all the gaudy jewelry in this place. Bring in the animals, tell your servants to collect every unhanged piece of art and I will paint over each one with the most ludicrous of scenes from the depths and farthest, most-depraved reaches of all of our imaginations. Your parents will drown in them. I will leave, your portrait will leave, you will leave and your parents will remain here surrounded by the most ludicrous and obscene art anyone could ever imagine bolted to the walls - it will be my living portfolio. For years, anyone who wants to hire me will be counseled that this address is a living altar to my oeuvre. Day and night your parents will be assaulted with visitors wanting to traipse through their myriad rooms on their good carpets to peer at my art. I will haunt them. Yet, they will not be able to reach me. The meaning behind each piece will not be explained - people will be confused and disgusted! It could ruin me! The staff will start small, putting up the little canvases in odd rooms your mother only walks through to get to other rooms - like that silly red room, or the hat room! Then they will swap the bigger pieces in more frequented rooms. Your parents will go mad with it, doubt their very senses and faculties. You doubt my love for you is real, that it could ever compete with my dedication to my craft and my OWN sense of duty, I defy you!”_ _

__Link shivered at Rhett's tirade and removed his clothes slowly. He moved the stool in front of the mirror, and looked through it at Rhett. And Rhett painted: a portrait of Link, naked, perched on a stool, looking through to him in the mirror, standing at his easel painting._ _

__“That one is for me, this next one is for you,” Link said as he pushed the stool aside and strode over to Rhett. He began undressing him, kissing him tenderly as he went along. "Start painting." Again, Rhett painted: a portrait of Link, naked, kissing him - also naked - standing at his easel painting. Keeping his focus on his painting no small feat as Link once again turned his attention to Rhett’s cock with long tight strokes, directing his spurts away from the canvas, unrelenting until Rhett completed the piece. His moans and grunts stifled in Link’s neck or covered by his kisses. He was brought to his knees for want of relief, for a detente, but none came until he set his paintbrush down._ _

__The third piece took several days. Link posed in a suit jacket and tie that brought out his eyes. His arm on the stack of books, a mischievous look in his eyes Rhett knew was truly meant only for him. Early mornings they swam in the pond and Link taught Rhett some horse-riding basics. When the sun fully illuminated the room they returned and Rhett would paint, breaking only for meals and ablutions. They would eat supper with Link’s parents, troop to the drawing room for piano and quiet reading until Link’s parents retired to their bedroom for the night. Link would crawl into Rhett’s lap and they’d read poetry and prose to each other, snuggling and exchanging sleepy nibbles. They’d creep to Rhett’s room and feast hungrily on each other, more daring and bold as the clock ran out, quiet moans, shallow breaths and soft grunts into the wee hours of the morning only to repeat it all again in a few hours. At dawn, Link would kiss Rhett softly on his cheek as he extricated himself from his arms, returning to his room to be “awoken” by a servant later in the morning._ _

__Before they knew it the varnish was mixed, filtered, applied and dried. True to his word Rhett made two canvases with swatches of all the colors and their stories and varnished those too. He also varnished the smaller canvases of their joint portraits, giving Link his own to hide for safekeeping._ _

__The books Link’s hand rested on were A Marriage Below Zero, The Picture of Dorian Gray, Romeo and Juliet, Little Women and the Book of Aphorisms. Mama Sue cried when she saw the painting. “Words cannot compare Mr. McLaughlin, I regret I ever doubted you.” She smiled. She cupped a hand to his cheek and pressed a thick envelope into his palm, “Surely by now you’re tired of us and want to be on your way. I will arrange your return travel for midday tomorrow and Mr. Neal will see to it that you are thoroughly entertained tonight, hmm?”_ _

__“Tha-thank you, Mrs. Lamont, but surely a quiet night in is-”_ _

__“Nonsense,” she interrupted, “I won’t hear of it.”_ _

__She clapped and two servants entered the room to carry the canvases away. She reached out a hand for Charles, “Charlie dear, come help us wrap and ship these off while Everett packs his things. Surely you want to include a message for your BETROTHED.” She grabbed his hand and pulled him along behind her._ _


	9. Chapter 9, Link

Charles sat at the dining table mulling over the words to send to Christiana, coming up empty at every turn. A servant approached him under the guise of refilling the water in his glass and folded a note into his palm.

He unfolded it. [Leave with me tomorrow] in Rhett’s steady handwriting. 

He could not. All this talk of duty and what needs must be done, of doctrine and covenants. His head was flooded with it. “Wine,” he croaked when the servant returned, expecting to find some response from Link to relay to Rhett.

“But sir, the note. It's been-”

“WINE!” He slammed his hand on the table.

The servant nodded and scurried off, returning with a decanter and a glass. 

“Thank you. I apologize for my behavior.” Link kept his eyes down, “Please leave me.”

Everett would receive no answer from him now. If he went to Little Brick tonight - or whatever upscale Gentleman’s Club his father patronized - that was the end of them. The end of Rhett and Link. If Everett could not stand up to his parents in this small matter, what chance did they have of leaving and starting a life together? This test was Rhett’s to pass or fail. 

Link couldn’t say how much time had passed - three carafes worth of time. The page in front of him was still blank save for splotches of wine where he’d absentmindedly rested the glass. 

“Everett, my boy! We ride!” He heard his father bellowing beyond the closed door. 

Rhett must have said something about eating here because his father responded with a cheery, “Nonsense, they have plenty of food there!"

Was _that_ it? Rhett’s paltry attempt at protest was a meager request to eat here!? What had Link expected of him? Why had he expected more? 

Again, he heard Rhett’s muffled voice, closer this time but still unintelligible to him.

“Fantastic point, I’ll ask him.” His father burst into the room, “Charlie, my boy. You up for chasing some tail tonight? I’m buying!” There was a gleam in his eye. “This is a cause for celebration for all of us!” His father beamed. Link didn’t know what possessed him to say yes, but he did. His father frowned but quickly returned that mawkish grin to his face when Rhett appeared behind him in the doorway with a hopeful smile. 

“Darling, we’re off!” Mr. Neal called over his shoulder as he shooed them out the door and into the waiting carriage. The trio were quiet in the carriage ride over. Soon they found themselves slowed to a crawl on a roundabout leading to a very large manor, almost twice the size of Lamont Manor. Link was given a suit jacket and tie and Rhett was given a bow-tie. They were then ushered to a dining hall where small plates were being placed and men were grouped here and there talking about this and that. Link couldn’t make out any particular voices amid the din. His father guided him by the elbow and introduced him to a few business associates. As he was being guided away, Link turned his head back to Rhett and saw a man approach him.


	10. Chapter 10, Rhett

“Everett, how do you do?” A man appeared to his right with his hand outstretched and Rhett turned, reflexively extending his hand to meet it. “I’m Mr. Foster, we live on the other side of Lamont Wood, though we call much of it Foster Grove. We have a little budding vineyard.”

Rhett nodded and smiled, this must be one of the families Mrs. Lamont had discussed with him. “My wife stopped by to see the piece today, absolutely exquisite stuff. You have our business if you want it! Sue said you were taking some time for family and friends, but when you return we’ll be ready for you!” He smiled. 

Rhett couldn’t believe that this was to be his life now, smiling and nodding and agreeing to return to paint another one of those dastardly portraits. Link and his father returned just as the bell was rung for the gentlemen to be seated. The meal was magnificent, and the wine impeccable. 

One by one the men were tapped on the shoulder and escorted away from the table. Thankfully Mr. Neal was escorted away first so when someone tapped on Rhett’s shoulder he pulled Link up beside him and asked for them to go together. The man frowned but complied, leading them to a well furnished room and shutting the door behind him.

“Have you ever been here?” Rhett asked, removing the silly tie and stuffy suit jacket. 

“No,” Link replied, following suit.

“Listen, whoever comes in here we tell them thanks but no thanks, charge it to your old man, take the carriage back to your house and it’s back here before your old man’s done playing pin-the-tail.” Rhett nodded at Link, “Agreed?”

Link smiled and stepped forward, resting his head on Rhett’s shoulder. Rhett wrapped him in his arms and they swayed until there was a knock on the door. Link slipped into the bathroom to prep himself while Rhett executed their plan. When the coast was clear, there was a rhythmic knock on their door and they were led down a side door out to the carriages. They found theirs and told the footman the plan. 

This time it was Rhett crowding into Link’s space, coating the inside of Link’s pants in his own mess, howling to put any creatures of the night to shame. Link's cries and moans swallowed by the wind, overpowered by the thunder of hooves and the clatter of the carriage wheels. They switched places and Link was upon him in an instant, swallowing Rhett deep into his throat, Rhett’s hands a mess in his hair, gripping the blankets. Rhett marvelled at the sight of his cock throbbing between Link's lips as he orgasmed, the sight of Link’s lips on him, his hair a mess of wayward strands, some plastered to his sweaty forehead, a clump of hair still in Rhett’s hand. That tongue that flitted masterfully, the deep pleasure he felt in this moment as Link continued to milk him, teasing another orgasm out of him again, his body fully pliant in Link’s hands and mouth. He snapped his hips as a wave hit him, the sound of Link’s gag delicious, sending him over the edge again, the orgasm ripped out of him. Link slurped the last of it and let Rhett’s cock fall out of him with a final obscene thwack against his belly. 

“I want you inside me now,” Link begged. He shimmied his pants off and straddled Rhett, sinking down slowly, his arms around Rhett’s shoulder and neck for balance as he moved with Rhett inside of him. Rhett moaned deep and low in his ear and gripped his hips, pulling him in closer on the ascent and bucking his hips up, driving deeper into Link on the descent. Link cried out in pleasure, rutting against Rhett for friction on his own cock. Rhett found his sweet spot and concentrated his movements there, hitting it over and over and over again until Link’s thighs were trembling and he was mewling into Rhett’s neck. Rhett reached between them and stroked Link’s cock in rhythm with his movements, another orgasm coursing through Link whose movements stuttered and stopped completely, allowing Rhett to fuck into him at a faster pace until he came, his hand still on Link’s cock coaxing him through a final blinding orgasm, their lips crashing together as the carriage hit a familiar bump in the path that signaled they were nearing Lamont Manor. 

They disentangled from each other and put back on garments they’d earlier cast aside.

“Rhett, I can’t go with you.”

Rhett looked crestfallen. “Why not?”

“Duty. Family.”

“You hate those things.”

“But that doesn’t mean I am not obligated to them.”

“I don’t think it’s duty. I think it’s fear. You fear a life of penury, of passion. Your mother has you so convinced that all that exists are marriages as loveless and duty-bound as hers. You see your father who would move his mistress in if your mother said he could, who interacts with his family out of a sense of duty and you think that’s as good as it will get for you. No outright hostilities, but everyone playing their role with plastered on smiles. She's convinced you that love is a myth and happiness is a silly striving.”

“They are! They are temporary. Money and honor and smart decisions build legacies, build families. If I take my name and go with me, what do I leave my parents? Who will carry on their name?”

“Which name? Lamont or Neal? Your parents can’t even pick one. Your father can impregnate his mistress at any time and like that! He has an heir to replace you. I am giving you a life of freedom. My riches will come. What part of your life - in this arrangement you’ll have with Christiana - do you expect will be as vibrant, as intense, as rich as what we have right here? What part of your life beyond your sauces and your wines? Poetry will never make you feel as good as it did reading it in my arms! You’ll grow old and gouty and miserable. You’ll drink and gamble your way into an early grave. If she’s smart she’ll get a few kids out of you quickly and slowly poison you. Or get you drunk and strap you on a horse and kick it into high speed, or kill you and leave you out in your forest. You’re an easy target. You’ll make yourself an easy target? Wha- why are you smiling? You’re smiling?! You find this funny? Oh you are cruel! You made me love you, you made me fall in love with you but you had no intentions of actually giving yourself over to this feeling yourself. I was a challenge, an obstacle to be defeated, a goal to be conquered, a stallion to be broken. You own my heart and my loins; you’ve made me a gelding.” Rhett’s hands flew to his hair, pulling at the miserable copse of curls in anguish. “You like this. You don’t really see a way past all this so why not have some fun? Is that it? This is just entertainment for you. This is the story to tell yourself over and over in your head. These are memories to get you going when you need to be with her but they will fade over time and what will you have then? You are resigned to this? What, did I tire you out? Was this just one protracted tantrum that I pacified and now you’ve seen the error of your ways? She got to you, huh? Sue. What did she promise you?”

“Shut up!” Link sneered. “I said no!”

 _‘You loved me, what right [do] you have to leave me?’_ Emily Bronte.


	11. Chapter 11, Link

Rhett stormed into the house - with Link on his heels - and threw his little painting - his one memento of their time together - into the fire. “Why have any reminder?" He spat. "Why not just make a clean break tonight? You’ve had your fill. This was your goal, wasn’t it? To ruin me. You couldn’t stop me from finishing the painting, so you chose the next best thing?" 

Rhett paused, waiting for Link to say something, anything! "You came after me! Remember?! You made me love you!” Rhett cried.

 _“When you shall these unlucky deeds relate,  
Speak of me as I am. Nothing extenuate,  
Nor set down aught in malice.  
Then must you speak of one that loved not wisely,  
but too well.”_ Shakespeare, Othello

Link sank to his knees in front of the fire, watching the little painting burn. His retort about Rhett’s ability to watch it all burn ringing in his ears. He didn’t hear Rhett storm out of the room. Assumed he was also watching the fire. It didn’t register until it was too late. Rhett returned with Link’s painting from his little hiding space in his room and pitched it into the fire before Link even registered the object whizzing by his periphery. He jumped back as the fire grew, enveloping its new prey in greedy little tendrils of red flame. He saw the prized image consumed. Watched it stretch then curl over into itself in charred black ringlets. He crumpled to the floor in a heap and sobbed. He wanted to rage, wanted to wail. “Get out!” His scream muffled by the ornate shagged carpet. He pushed himself up onto his knees and elbows, then onto his hands and scanned the room for Rhett. For Everett.  
But he was already gone. Link stayed on the floor of Rhett's room for a while, curled into a ball, before moving into Rhett’s bed, his scent enveloping him. One more night with Rhett all around him. He deserved that. He may be a coward, but he deserved just one more night before all evidence of Rhett was scrubbed from the walls and washed from the sheets, his memory a whisper, a ghost. 

Link cried himself to sleep, and when the birds began their pre-dawn chirping he rose and crept to his room, surprised but not surprised to find his sheets rumpled, and the smell of Rhett greeting him there too. Though his lips trembled, he willed himself not to cry as he wrapped himself up in his own sheets, surrounded once again by the scent of his boy.


	12. Chapter 12: Charles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part II

He was alone at the party now. His parents had exchanged whispers and nudges all night, watching his father’s pocket watch like a hawk. They’d made their excuses and rushed home, promising to send the carriage back quickly so it was back when he wanted to leave. He was just tucking into a fresh glass of wine and a tiny nut bun he’d selected from the sweets table when a burst of laughter in the next room caught his attention. His parents had steered their tiny troop away from other rooms all night, preferring the quietest room with the dry band and the rest of the old croaks. Link dusted crumbs off his lapel and meandered his way to the doorway of the next room. He gave the room a quick once-over, noting people slowly inching over to a corner of the room where a tall fellow was - no. Was that… Everett? Surely he wasn’t so tipsy as to be seeing ghosts - because as quietly as that man had left him, clearing all evidence he’d ever lived in that house even before the servants erased what he hadn’t- it had to be his ghost he was seeing here at the party. He blinked in disbelief. 

The range of emotions coursing through him a whirlwind of panic and excitement, panic and dread, panic and a memory - a tenuous, shimmering ephemerality: the brush of lips in a chaste, tentative kiss, before more persistent exploring softer ones followed; the sweet pain of a nip to soft, sensitive flesh; a chorus of moans; a strangled plea eked out into the hollows of a pillow - this couldn’t be. Charles - his given name after all, and the name to which he’d returned even in the quiet space of his imagination having expunged all memory of Rhe- Everett - had to get closer. To be sure. 

His eyes had not deceived him from the doorway or even this close. He knew that familiar shock of curls could only belong to one man, towering over everyone - a crowd captive around him, hanging on his every word. Charles crept closer still, finally able to make out what Everett was saying. “... and I’m painting her dearest friend - the betrothed - and they set me up in the manor’s cello room. One day she’s playing for her friend who must remain ever so still as I capture the fine details of her face and she joked that the fermata on the sheet music for Bach’s Prelude in G looked like a woman dancing with arms outstretched and we laughed about that! A kindred spirit! I didn’t expect to find one in this place.” That stung. “Not to mention that composition - the resolution as he climbs back to G* is like the first breath of spring, or that first bite of winter chill, or the spreading flame of inebriation, or…. or an orgasm! Ha! Funny, wise and worldly. And the rest was history! I had to have her!”

Charles. Saw. Red! He was in disbelief! The nerve of Rhe- Everett. Back in HIS town, regaling HIS people with some idiot story of a conquest - the imbeciles stuck on that pompous prick’s every word. Charles snaked his way back toward the door, through the main room and drawing room, down a hallway and out into the chill of the night. Fuming, he searched frantically for his carriage, relieved when he saw the horses trotting through the gate. He ran toward the footman, calling out for the horses to yield lest they trample him and tumbled into the carriage. And yes, yes he had heard Everett whisper-yelling his name through the halls of that ridiculous manor! And yes, yes he’d heard Rhett yelling his name over the whinnying horses and calls of the footman, but it had taken everything in him not to turn around … or beckon for the carriage to slow down, and for him to run to Rhett and-

“Home or Brick, Master Neal!?” Likely the third or fourth time the footman had repeated himself, finally breaking through to him. 

“Home!” He yelled back. He couldn’t have Rhett anymore - that much was certain, he’d ruined that - but at least he could keep his dignity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *This vox video deconstructing the song is ~chef's kiss~: https://youtu.be/UIge2mYdTtM


	13. Chapter 13: Everett

Rhett was back in this godforsaken town, now at the Foster house, painting their sallow daughter, exploring the grounds and foraging for materials for his paint, looking for any excuse to wander too far and “accidentally” end up on the Lamont-Neal side of the property, maybe see Link on his horse, maybe get trampled by the beast... anything to feel something. He stalled for as long as he could but the Foster brood was itching for him to finish the deal and clinch their financial future in a marriage to a family in Pennsylvania who had just discovered oil - apparently it would be huge. The Foster father had made his money on speculation and did not expect to be disappointed in his investment. Paint dried, varnish applied and Rhett was piled into a carriage off to the Wilson’s house before long. 

Now clear on the other side of town from Link, Rhett had less excuses to bump into him. He decided it was risky but committed to one last idea before abandoning hope: he decided to visit the Brick. He remembered Link one saying Grace was his friend, he was sure to be there on a random night like tonight. And besides, Rhett had a cover story - he never did complete his night with Jessie. He could go there under the guise of finishing what he’d started. The bonus: Jess was good company! He waited for the carriage to roll to a stop before hopping out.

“Young man!” Grace called from the front steps of her establishment “Let me save you some trouble... and some money! Step no further! Your money’s no good here.”

Darnit! Thwarted before he’d even reached the door! “Miz Grace I mean you no insult, I have money - I’m here for a meal and some company.” 

“Boy! I said your money’s no good here. I am armed, and not afraid to use it!”

Rhett threw his hands up in mock surrender. “I’m backing away!” He called. 

“‘F’ya lookin’ for ya boy, he’ll be at the Ol’ Christmas* party at the Dugganses - a few day’s time.” Old Christmas - perhaps a chance for them to start over, bury the past - be friends? Link was a coward and he… he had a job to do - but at least they could be courteous. Link was fun, surely they could pass some evenings together reading and drinking and talking. That would be nice. To have a friend in all of this. 

And so here he was at the Old Christmas Party - unsure of what he would say to Link if he saw him. Maybe he would tell Link he drew every inch of him from memory each night so the sight wouldn’t fade. Each line he drew flooding him with moans and quickened breaths and intense pleasure stifled in the quiet darkness or thundered in the trees of Lamont Wood. The vibrance of each image could raise gooseflesh but couldn’t quell the sudden pang of dread that even if he saw Link and Link saw him, that he’d closed that door for good with his melodramatics. The chance - the horror! - that Link wouldn’t even acknowledge him, or worse would avoid him! But alas, the hours passed late into the evening, taking his patience and energy with them. He slumped into a blissfully overstuffed armchair and half-heartedly joined a conversation with Mr. Mumford, the owner of the biggest distillery in North Carolina who’d recently moved to town with his brood of children.

Rhett nursed a mug of hot buttered bourbon the older man handed him and listened quietly, providing the occasional nod and “is that so,” until the conversation turned to him and he was forced to sing for his supper. He stood to full height, drained the mug and signalled for a top-up before regaling the crowd with tales of his painting for his current portrait family - as he’d taken to calling them. That he was unattached was beginning to affect his employability and he’d even seen a lady portrait artist dragging an empty canvas into the Gruder’s house while on a walk a few weeks prior. So yes, he’d started a tortuously dull courtship with the eldest of the Simpson children. It got her mother off her back and it opened doors back up to him. 

His mistake - he supposed - was putting too much into the character because although he’d been scanning the crowd trying to get a glimpse of Link all night to no avail, when he finally did it was to see the crestfallen look on his face and the flash of anger as Link turned on his heels and made for the door. His calls and pleas for Link to slow down went unheeded. Making Link jealous - or worse, upset - had not been his intention. He wanted to tell him it was all a ruse! That he’d vowed long ago never to compromise himself, to be true to himself. But those words rung hollow - he’d compromised himself when he’d taken that first job, and every job he committed to since. He’d compromised himself when he’d left without goodbye - without DEMANDING Link come with him and promises they’d find a way to live as happy a life together as possible. He couldn’t say those words because he had been compromising, trading his dignity for money and protection. Trading a life of happiness with Link to protect his heart from the “No,” he knew would be the answer to any and every question he asked him. He didn’t know what he would say to Link if they ever spoke again but he knew now, alone in the cold outside the party watching Link’s carriage get smaller and smaller as it thundered away, that he had missed his chance. That night that grimace and the flash of anger torched all tender memories of Link. It was the first night Rhett didn’t draw him. He slammed his sketchbook closed, snuffed the candle and threw himself into bed, winding into the covers, he sobbed himself to sleep. Unleashing months of pain, anguish and heartbreak he’d numbed. In the morning he felt as blank as that last empty page, staring off into the distance until the leaves of the trees blurred together and the sounds of his host family pulling out chairs, clanking silverware and dishes brought his mind back to the task at hand.


	14. Chapter 14: Charles

As Charles' carriage neared the manor, the strange carriage at the door was the first confirmation that his parents had indeed been up to something all night. The second was the mayhem of luggage and servants in the foyer - many of whom Charles didn’t know from Eden. The third, well, the third dang near knocked him over!

“It’s my husband to be!” The third clue crooned into his ear, tightening her embrace and shimmying her shoulders in excitement! “You look just like your portrait - your artist should get double!” She chuckled. 

“Charles, dear,” Mama Sue called, her voice dripping in honey, “I see you’ve met our surprise. Her family was travelling back from holidaying with friends and extended kin when they wrote us with a wonderful idea: an engagement party while they’re here. It’s in a week! That’ll give you two some time to get to know one another while we plan. 

“Good idea, mama!” He replied, turning on the charm and directing it toward Christiana, his betrothed. “I’ve been dying to meet you!”

“Oh honey,” she replied, touching his cheek, “Call me Christy.”

The next morning Charles rode his horse hard around Lamont Wood. He fed, watered and brushed him down and slipped him apples and sugar for his effort. Bursting through the dining room, he noticed Christy blush and follow him around the room with her eyes, he knew she enjoyed the view of his clothes sweaty, clinging to him, leaving nothing to the imagination. But something tugged at the back of his mind, he didn’t feel sexy or strong under her gaze. He felt naked, and cold. He set his plate down, half full from dishing out his portion from the little buffet the servants had laid, winking at Christy - the least he could do - before returning to his room to bathe quickly and don fresh clothes for breakfast. 

The rest of the morning, through lunch, and early into the afternoon he spent with Christy and the other women planning the party. When he mimed to his mother to be excused she narrowed her eyes at him, “You know, Charles’s father was a part of the planning of every detail for our engagement party and wedding ceremony,” she said to everyone and no one in particular. “He loved every minute of it.” That settled that. 

For his effort Link was rewarded with taking the sack of wedding invitations to the post. The engagement party and wedding reception invitations for local folk he was to hand-deliver by carriage for the rest of the day and the next day - awaiting their responses before moving on to the next house. Cleaning and decorating began quickly and when he returned home from his second day of invitationing, the house had been cleaned from top to bottom and was resplendent in silver and white decor for the party. He was in a sour mood - if he’d cared to admit to himself - but he didn’t know why. What he did not care to admit to himself was that he’d hoped to catch sight of him behind the door of every house upon which he called. The Simpsons were most decidedly not invited to the soiree. He dropped the invitation in the muck in front of the horses as he climbed back into the carriage at the Richardson’s and watched them trample it impatiently as they waited for giddyap from the footman as he bade lengthy goodbyes to the Richardsons. 

So Charles was surprised - he had to admit - when a Mr. Everett McClaughlin and Susanna Simpson were announced as they entered his party. He watched as Susanna deposited a rather large decorated-paper-wrapped box with a thick loopy bow that Everett fussed with, smoothing down the bow and tucking the card further under a seam in the paper to secure it. Charles thought he seemed happy. They’d made their choices, he supposed.


	15. Chapter 15: Everett

“Play for us, Everett!” Mama Sue called to him as the dinner plates were cleared and replaced with little ramekins of tarts and pudding. Rhett nodded, his finger having just popped a dollop of pudding swiped from Susie’s plate into his mouth. “It’s been so long since I’ve heard your beautiful voice!” 

Rhett obliged, pulling Susie up with him and beckoning for Ellena, his favorite, to fetch a cello from the music room for Susie. Rhett whispered to Susie the saddest song he knew for cello and piano. If Mama Sue would make him proffer up yet another piece of art in service of this union, she’d have to beg him to be happy about it. 

“Another!” She exclaimed as Rhett played the last chilling note, biting the skin on the inside of his cheek, begging himself not to cry.” The crinkle of his cheeks and his eyelids pushed a solitary coursing down his cheek. “This time an allegro, give us something to sing to!” She clapped. 

Susie gave him a deep look of understanding and mouthed the name of the next song. He cued it up and chanced a glance at Link. His cheek was raw from the ravages of his teeth and he was sure his eyes were red and puffy. Such a sad little creature he was, and yet Link avoided his gaze and stared at a point above his head with a flat, toothless smile plastered on his face.

Again Mama Sue’s voice cut through the applause. “Charles, join them! You and Everett played all the time when he was here painting your portrait for your lovely wife-to-be!” Rhett could see Charlie’s mask falter, a scowl for all but a second before he corrected it and deepened his smile. 

Charles walked slowly to the piano and asked for a violin. Rhett chewed his thumbnail near to the quick while Link tuned the violin, his heart thundering in his chest. Susie rested the cello on its stand and walked slowly to Rhett, perching gently beside him on the piano bench she placed a hand on his thigh to quiet his trembling leg. Link scoffed at the sight of the gentle display, once again misreading their situation, and called the song, nestling the violin into his neck while Rhett launched in. This continued for some time, he and Charles swapping instruments after each song, playing each request. It was Christy who saved them from playing their fingers to nubs, exclaiming she was ready to open gifts. ‘Thank you,’ Rhett mouthed to her as she shooed guests into the next room. 

“Li-” All Rhett could manage as Link stormed out of the room with the guitar and stomped right back through to the other room on his way back, taking his seat next to Christiana and tearing into the first gift. He sighed and closed the piano lid, catching his head in his hand. “Mister McLaughlin?” Ellena tapped him on his shoulder. “Would some puddin’ help?” He smiled up at her, taking the little bowl and spoon she offered and licking them both clean. 

Susie offered her hand and led him to the other room, they stood in the doorway watching Mama Sue choose each gift, announce who it was from and watching the party ‘ooh’ and ‘aah’ over the contents of each. She squealed dutifully when Mama Sue got to theirs. The gift was a corset and soft silk chemise nightgown - Rhett’s contribution was the art on the wrapping paper. He noticed how gingerly Link unwrapped it, much to the annoyance of Christiana who wrinkled her nose and pouted, ripping it nearly in half in her excitement, her voice raising two octaves as she fawned over the soft nightgown and pretty colored corset inside - their gift the most risqué and fashionable by far. 

“Everett,” he heard a voice call from behind him. He turned to see Mr. Neal. “We’d like for you to paint a portrait of the couple before their wedding day. Would that be too much trouble? Christy - as we’ve taken to calling her - is absolutely enamored of your work and insists on sitting for a portrait by you. You can fit it in, can’t you, amid your… other sittings?” His polite way of saying Everett would not be rooming with them during the commission. 

“Sir, certainly. I’d be delighted. But, surely there are other-”

“Why, yes, but she insists. We’ve suggested others but she didn’t like their portfolios, so here we are.”


	16. Chapter 16: Charles

He wasn’t sure if he wanted more to laugh or cry at the deja vu of it all. Somehow here he was again, with Everett in his house, commissioned to paint a portrait of him against his will. He sat and wrote thank you cards while Everett positioned and studied Christiana. She insisted he call her Christy, and he asked her to call him Rhett, for which Charles cocked an eyebrow but refused to acknowledge in any way “Rhett” could see. Their budding friendship - well, Christy’s prattling and Rhett’s friendly nature - distracted them and Charles made more furtive glances at Rhett. Interrupting them to run a new thank you message by Christy for each card. This close to Rhett again after so long he could smell him. Beneath his paints and concoctions, that smell he’d haunted the sheets and the walls of this very room for. It was unmistakable. He craved him again. Every day the clock struck three he could feel his mood shift, could feel the excitement in his fingers, the base of his spine, his toes, his - his betrothed didn’t have to drag him to the sitting room anymore to pose. He went willingly. He even brought along the well-worn book of John Keats poems - the last book of poetry he was reading with Rhett before he upended his world and read them to Christy as she posed, eyes intent on the back of Rhett’s canvas. Rhett’s eyes on Link, his brush frozen in mid-air as he heard those words again and hoped against hope they were for him. 

“Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art… No—yet still stedfast, still unchangeable, Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast, To feel for ever its soft fall and swell, Awake for ever in a sweet unrest...”*

Rhett excused himself. Charles imagined he didn’t want to hear the last couplet and ruin the illusion that Charles was reciting the poem to him. “Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath, And so live ever—or else swoon to death.”* He finished and closed the book, placing a kiss on Christy’s forehead. Hands shaking he placed the book on the little table in front of them and waited for Rhett to return. 

*Bright Star, John Keats 

The next day Rhett did not appear at his usual time. Link felt as if he were a sail deflating in a dead wind, he felt jumpy, starting at every creak and rustle. He rode Julius - his white bay mare - so hard to the end of the property line he bucked him off into the brush on the Foster’s side, and refused to let him climb back on. The sad pair trudged back through the icy undergrowth, Julius flaring and snorting his frustration the entire way back - the sting of the cold burrowing deep into Charlie’s thin layers, the wind crisp and biting on any exposed flesh. Miserable and chilled to the bone, he and the horse were trembling by the time they returned to the stables. 

For nearly a week after that Link cowered in bed under blankets, choking down soup Christy fed him, trying to chase the cold out of his bones. Her family had long left for home, leaving her and a sister - and a half dozen of their staff - to help plan the wedding. Christy found time between her planning duties and portrait sittings with Rhett to nurse him. She read to him from a new book of sea voyages, conquests and adventures of British and American men. When color bloomed on his cheeks again and he stopped feeling so miserably feeble, he bathed and put on several layers of warm clothes and went to visit Julius in the stables, apologizing profusely and showering him with sweet crunchy things before going on a long walk by himself. 

His heart was truly torn. On the one hand he was beginning to care for Christiana. He wondered how many of her little idiosyncrasies he would overlook if he didn’t have to face Rhett everyday and feel the pull on his heartstrings every time he stole a sidelong glance at him. On the other, some days he wanted nothing more than to curl into Rhett’s big, strong, paint-splotched arms and kiss him tenderly and tell him how much he missed him. Some days his heart swelled with it, he cursed himself for not being braver, for having second-thoughts, for being so pitifully stuck, counting down the days to his wedding.


	17. Chapter 17: Rhett

“Don’t go over there today, Rhett,” Susie said as she put her knife and fork down. As their bond deepened, they’d made a habit of taking meals together - sometimes at the Simpson house, sometimes at the Murphy house where he was currently stationed. She smiled mischievously, “Come with me to my final dress fitting. You know the wedding is a few days away. I need you to tell me how beautiful I look!” She attempted to preen but soon dissolved into giggles. 

“But, the portrait-”

“No! You can spare one day. You’re torturing yourself! Closed up in that room with them while he reads your poetry to her. You’re a glutton for punishment! Enough! You can spare one day away from all that poetical flagellation. Enough - I command it!” She gave him her sternest look, and Rhett knew better than to disobey a lady’s command. 

For a week after that Link was not in the sittings. Mama Sue claimed he had taken ill and reminded Everett that the painting was due in nine days time - the day of the wedding. He continued to paint Christiana’s intricate dress and found himself once again using his own image and sketches of Link as guides for the portrait. Three days before the wedding Link appeared, on time, his cheeks flushed, his expression wan, a far-off look in his eyes. Rhett resolved to make do - he was on a deadline and had only to complete the expression work before he could be done with the painting and this dreaded house forever. After getting the couple situated and watching Christy attempt to coax some life and expression into Link’s face, Rhett began painting and was making some headway when Mama Sue peaked in at their progress and smiled at the happy couple. She stood near Rhett with a hand on his shoulder, watching him paint. “Sorry to interrupt Everett but, Christiana, dear, I have a present for you. Something blue-ueeee,” she sang. 

Rhett set his paintbrush down and stood, planning to use Christiana’s time away to stretch his legs. He stomped and shook his legs and arms. Making quite the ruckus he almost missed Link’s faint voice as he said, “I’m ready, Rhett.”

Rhett stopped and turned to face Link, confusion plain on his face. “Ready? Ready for what?”

Link took a shaky breath in, lips quivering - so close to tears, he plunged in, “I have been numb since you left. The world is a mute, grey, hum in the back of my head. Sometimes… sometimes I think you took a piece of me with you when you left and I’m waiting for your touch to bring me back to life. Even the richest prose falls on deaf ears. I don’t want to grow old and gouty and miserable - you were right! You were a challenge, yes, an obstacle, but you were so much more, Rhett. I love you.” He bit back tears, “I absolutely, adore you. I miss everything about you! I-” He reached for Rhett, wiped away the tear that had gathered in the corner of his eye, trailed his hand down a warm cheek, scratched at his beard. “The memories are not enough. I need you. I need us. You asked me to leave with you once and I wasn’t ready. I am ready now. I will follow you to the ends of the Earth.. I, um, hmm.” He cleared his throat and jabbed at the canvas, “ I think I should be looking down more, do you agree?” He blurted as they heard the swishes of skirts signalling Mama Sue and Christy had returned. 

‘I love you!’ He wanted to scream, wanted everyone to know, wanted to sweep Link into a hug, to kiss him, but he couldn’t. Instead he gulped, “Yes. Fine.” And busied himself rifling through his paint bag and rearranging his paint pots, his heart nearly beating out of his chest. Anything to avoid Mama Sue’s glare. Link and Christy settled back into their poses. Link was noticeably stiffer, his expression tight; Christy was oblivious. Under Mama Sue’s withering gaze he finished the painting then and there.


	18. Chapter 18: Link

Charles sat frozen, unmoving, almost afraid to blink as Rhett finished the painting, set it aside and scrambled to collect his supplies, calling, “I’ll come back to varnish tomorrow,” over his shoulder as he raced out of the room and out to the waiting carriage. 

With the crack of the whip Link deflated. Christy gasped, thinking it a sign his recent affliction had returned. 

“Christy, water!” Mama Sue barked. Christy bolted from the room. 

“Charles Lincoln Nea-”

“Mama, I can’t-”

“Don’t. You. Dare. Don’t you dare, you insolent, ungrateful-”

“I can’t do it. I can’t marry-”

“You can. And you WILL! If you want to see a penny of-”

“Then I won’t. I won’t see a penny, I won’t see a dime, I won’t even see a nickel. Keep it. Keep all of IT!” He screamed and tore from the room. “The wedding is off!” He yelled in the hallway, running up the flight of stairs and into his room, slamming the door behind him and tearing through armoires and chest of drawers, throwing clothes, and shoes and anything valuable he could sell into two bags. Only what he could carry. 

He burst from the room, his mother launching back into the wall to take cover and would have knocked his father over too if the man hadn’t planted his feet square. “And where are you going?”

“Father,” he huffed, tightening the grip on his bags, shoulders back, chin up, “I am leaving. I will not marry Christy. I am going after Rhett. You cannot stop me.”

“Oh,” his father cocked an eyebrow in challenge, “I can’t?”

“No,” Link sneered, narrowing his eyes. 

“Then by all means,” his father stepped away, a wave of his hands in mock ceremony, “but Charles, if you leave today, you cannot come back.” 

He sniffed, “Then I guess this is goodbye.”

He ran down the steps two at a time, burst out the door and made for the nearest carriage, “Simpson house!” He called, hoping to have cleared the gate before word reached and the could be stopped. He slumped back in the seat and wept in relief and release when the carriage cleared the gates and the horses kept galloping. 

The carriage rolled to a stop in front of the Simpson house and he jumped out. Rhett had to be here.

“Sir?” The quizzical servant asked when she opened the door to the Simpsons. 

“Is Rhett here?” Link asked. “Rhett!” He yelled, not waiting for her reply. “Rhett!” Louder this time. He had to be here - he just had to be!


	19. Chapter 19: He’s madly in love. He cannot resist.

“Link?” Rhett was in disbelief. He’d heard his name and bolted for the front door, his body registering the voice before his mind could catch. It couldn’t be…. But it was! “Link!” He beamed! Link dropped his bags and ran into his arms, peppering his neck and cheeks with kisses

“Over here!” Susie called, beckoning them into the study. 

Behind the closed door Link was upon Rhett once again, hungry for his lips, his hands in his hair - how he’d missed those curls, the scratch of his beard, those big hands around him, on his hips, holding him so close, so tight. “No, don’t let go,” Link whispered. 

“I have to tell you something.” Rhett whispered, resting his forehead on Link’s. 

“What?” Link asked, tilting his head back to look Rhett in the eyes, begging him not to say anything to ruin this moment and make him regret… everything!

Rhett cupped Link’s cheek, swept a stray lick of hair into place, brushed his thumb against those lips. He smiled, “I love you too.” He paused, “I love you too.”

****  
I do not write about love  
as if I have invented it.  
I write about love  
because thoughts of you  
inspire self-forgetfulness.  
And because writing about you  
gives birth to a star.  
These stars sit inside me  
where there was once  
darkness.  
Kamand Kojouri

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The scene that started it all:  
> Heloise (muse/subject): [Reading] They were nearing the surface, approaching the threshold when fearing losing Eurydice and impatient to see her, her loving spouse turned and she was instantly drawn back. She reached out for his embrace and hoped to hold him. Her poor hands clutched only the empty air. Dying a second time, she did not complain. His sole fault was loving her. 
> 
> Sophie (maid/friend): No, he can’t look at her for fear of losing her. That’s no reason. He was told not to do that.
> 
> Heloise: He’s madly in love. He cannot resist. 
> 
> Marianne (Portrait Artist): He could resist. His reasons aren’t serious. Perhaps he makes a choice. 
> 
> Sophie: What choice?
> 
> Marianne: He chooses the memory of her. That’s why he turns. He doesn’t make the lover’s choice, but the poet’s.


End file.
